


Flights of Demons Sing Thee To Thy Sleep

by Tammany



Series: The Sussex Downs [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Choirs of Angels, Crossover, F/M, Gen, M/M, Mash-up, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Ranks of angels and demons, principality Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 16:46:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20294737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: The evening continues around the Holmes Place in Sussex. John more or less hasn't a clue. But when does he ever? Someday he will learn to make choices when he's not pissed. Or at least doubt the choices he makes when he is.Rosie is beloved and cared for.Angel is a Principality. How 'bout them apples? :) God works in mysterious ways, her wonders to perform.





	Flights of Demons Sing Thee To Thy Sleep

How did that happen, John wondered. How the bloody buggering hell did that happen? And how did it turn out that once again everything was his fault?

It wasn’t his fault. Damnit, he was sure it wasn’t his fault.

It would have made more sense if he had believed it possible to snap one’s fingers and stop time entirely, so that someone could actually plan a few plans before reality hurtled on. But that was impossible, and John knew what Sherlock always said about the impossible. You had to rule the really silly stuff out, before you went on to the impossible things that could happen.

Right?

Right?

So…how did he find himself and Rosie full of cold lamb sandwiches and a little asparagus mayonnaise salad, plus a steady stream of cold water? Nothing alcoholic, the pretty little armful of blonde had said, reproving. Because “dehydration, you…you…you negligent chump! Yer child is hauf parched, puir wean!” according to the slithering snake in the goth outfit, his accent rapidly heading north into Scottish territory.

It had to be fatigue, John thought. He couldn’t have seen the man’s tongue flash out, jet black and split and flickering. Could he?

Then, as he and Rosie ate some of the most marvelous trifle he'd ever tasted, he got a dressing down from Sherlock, who suggested he hadn’t done his own due diligence on Adair. Or even thought to ask Sherlock about him. And Greg had suggested that problems making time for girlfriends would not get him so much as a sympathetic pat on the shoulder back in his division of the MET—that coppers had to deal with as much erratic challenge as family practitioners. And why didn’t he ever seem to go for trauma specialist anyway, as it was his strong suit?

And through it all Mycroft just sat in a corner watching everything and glowing like he was in a box seat at the Royal Albert, watching the next BAFTA landmark production of a new play that was going to go down in history, with a cast containing more British Greats than a Harry Potter movie.

And now he was washed and wearing a too-big t-shirt and sweats from Greg…because every other male in the place was tall as a skyscraper and skinny as a lab pipette. (Which made him feel like a right proper mushroom, dammit…)(Though he’d be a good match for the pretty blonde armful and wasn’t that a nice notion?)(Particularly with Adele mad at him and the slithering, obnoxious goth sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the pretty blonde’s legs, arms wrapped around Rosie—around JOHN’S Rosie!—singing softly under his breath and stroking her forehead as she melted into blessed sleep…)

“She’s taken, you prat,” Sherlock muttered. But he handed John a full pint of perfectly chilled IPA, so that was all right. A man needed a beer after a day like this.

Mycroft had taken a vast, throne-like arm chair of carved teak—a tropical work of art clearly intended as art at least as much as furniture. It was covered with graceful fish leaping straight out of flowing currents of water, darting dragon flies, otters, and below them all, lurking, the hint of a Chinese dragon, swimming in deep waters. There was room for Mycroft to coil himself, legs tucked under, elbow leaning on the dragon’s arching spine.

“John, you and Rosie will stay in the cottage tonight. It’s a bit sparse, but the loo works, and there are beds, and I’ll send you down with sheets and towels. Sherlock, you will stay up at the big house with me and Greg. Tomorrow you and your “little helpers” can get your things in the cottage, and I promise, if I hear from the Inland Revenuers hunting smugglers we _will _have words. Greg, if you don’t mind I’m going to call Anthea and have her arrange an extended time off for both of us. I think the situation warrants it—and it’s not as though it’s hardship even with…brother-dearest and his lot cluttering up the estate.” Then his eyes went to the two strangers, the sexy little blonde and the snaky goth.

He would swear—swear!—that he had never seen Mycroft look at anyone with the entranced delight he looked on those two, and God alone knew why. They were the oddest pair John thought he’d ever seen.

“You two are welcome over whenever you like. And…thank you for taking me up on my rather scatty invitation earlier. I hope we didn’t scare you off forever. I’ll admit, life around Sherlock actually is usually rather a lot like this. But Greg and I are more orderly company.”

The goth barely noticed the comment, so lost was he in putting Rosie to sleep. The blonde, though, smiled with the most gentle, loving expression…as nurturing and kind as the goth’s behavior toward Rosie.

“We’ll be back, my dear boy. Never fear. But there’s no rush. We can see the child settled down and your household returned to some kind of order, no matter what chaos Sherlock and this berk of his inflict on your peace.” And she shot John a look (that he encountered far too often from pretty women) suggesting he’d be lucky to walk down to the cottage later with his face unslapped.

And the goth looked up just long enough to mutter, “Silly git. Tetched, you are. Tetched!”

So there was that.

But it was a very good IPA.

That made up for a lot.

Even if it was the goth who carried a totally sleeping Rosie down the stairs to the cottage below, and tucked her into a bed that seemed to be made with the kind of invisible, time-stop magic you’d expect in a Mary Poppins movie.

He woke up early, with the thin light of dawn and the sound of birdsong. After years in London that was as unexpected and improbable to his ears as a nightingale singing in Berkeley Square. He peed, showered, dressed in his simplest—t and chinos—checked Rosie, and padded up the stairs to the patio above, where Mycroft and Greg and the two strangers lay sprawled in teak deck chairs arrayed around the still flickering tailings of a night-long fire in a big iron fire pit.

Undetected, he leaned against a palm tree, arms crossed, trying to play catch-up. Mycroft? With guests? And when had he and Greg become an item?

He apparently hadn’t been paying attention for some time.

“Me, I’m nothin’ special,” the goth said, hands cradling a cup of tea fit for a giant. “Least before I fell. But Angel? She’s a principality, she is.” He looked fondly at the buxom little blonde, who looked as fondly back.

“Guardian of nations and even of the world,” Mycroft murmured—and something powerful passed between him and the sexy armful, as though they shared an understanding unstated but overwhelming. One corner of Mycroft’s mouth turned up, wry and amused. “So—do you have a flaming sword?”

“Flames like anything,” the goth said, tenderly. “But she gave it away for awhile. And it’s in safe keeping now. Isn’t it, Angel?”

“It’s in storage,” Angel said, tartly. “And if I do my job—and Mr. Holmes does his—maybe we’ll be able to leave it there.”

John shook his head. They were talking riddles. All he could make of it was that Angel was some kind of high mucketty. From the sound of it something in government, like Mycroft. And the goth wasn’t, but was recovering from some kind of falling injury big enough to have changed his career track.

John felt a bit of empathy for the goth. Not expected. But there it was. He’d had to start over more than once.

He stepped out of the shrubberies, and onto the slate pavers. “Morning,” he murmured. “Tea available?”

“Water’s hot, mugs and tea canisters out on the counter. Sugar in the jar. Milk in the fridge. Muffins in the basket,” Greg said, voice soft and suited to the dawn hour.

“Sherlock?”

“Sleeping the sleep of the righteous—entirely unearned, of course. He was a fidget all night, until we could pack him off to bed. Less mature than that daughter of yours. Speaking of which, if you ever again arrive at my house with that child in that condition I am reporting you. Whatever were you thinking of?”

John flinched. Damn Mycroft for being right. “Sorry. My bad. Got so angry I was seeing flames all the way down the highway. To my credit I did pack clothes for her, and stop long enough to get her food and drink and let her take a loo break.”

“She was exhausted,” the goth said, softly but disapprovingly. Then, he clucked, like a broody hen or an annoyed Scottish nanny. “Shame on you, man. And a doctor—you should know better.”

John knew better.

But he’d been angry.

He ought to lose his parenting license for “deciding while angry.” He sighed, said no more, but retreated into the dim of the big house in search of tea. No matter what, he made better choices after tea…

“So there you are.” Sherlock was hidden in the shadows of the sitting room, hidden by carefully chosen sight lines. He cupped his own tea in wide-fingered hands.

“Here I am,” John grumbled, and went out to the kitchen. When he came back he was carrying his mug, and a cherry-almond muffin on a plate.

“There’s marzipan filling in those,” Sherlock murmured. “Greg spoils Mycroft quite deplorably.”

“Shops at a better shop than Tescos, I take it?”

“Rather.”

John settled on the sofa, and unwrapped the muffin. He took a sacred and holy gulp of tea. He nibbled a bite of pastry. He sighed, blissfully, eyes closed, then flexed his muscles, and said, “So—who are the strangers?”

“Neighbors,” Sherlock said, morose. “I believe the woman to be a Principality of the Lord. The obnoxious git with the melodramatic black clothing appears to be a demon from hell. They’re in love with each other.”

John blinked. He considered. It was awfully early. He might not be at his best yet. He might even still be sleeping, engaged in a particularly amusing dream.

“Really?” he said. “Did you deduce it, then?”

“No,” Sherlock grumbled, resentful to the marrow. “I resorted to eavesdropping.”

“A…Principality? Is that…something to do with Charles and the kids and grandkids?”

“No. That’s to do with the choirs of angels and the spheres of heaven.”

“Riiiiiight. And a demon from hell. Who spends the evening feeding and cuddling my daughter? And you never said anything?” He’d be angrier if he believed it. Even humoring Sherlock, it was a bit appalling to think of.

“I didn’t know last night—I hadn’t eavesdropped yet. And for what it’s worth, it’s probably more accurate to say that the demon at least is more or less retired. I think he freelances as a minor trickster god. They said something about weekends with Puck up around Burwash, in the Rother district.”

“Puck. As in _the _Puck?”

“Mmmm.” Sherlock exchanged a sullen glance with John. “Don’t look at me. I don’t like it any better than you do. But—when you have eliminated the impossible whatever remains is true. I’m forced to admit that this is not quite as impossible as the other options, and explains quite a lot.”

“Mmm-hmmm.” John thought about it, then said, “I think I need more tea.”

Which seemed to sum it all up completely.

He drank his tea, and ate his muffin, and eventually wandered out to join the household by the fire. 

He didn't stay to hear Sherlock slip out his mobile and speed dial a familiar number.

"Gooood morning! Yes. Me. No, you don't hate me... No--not even if I did wake you up. Yes. Everything's here. Van will be unloaded today. Um--do you think you could come over? Yes. Yes, all right, I'm inviting you to come help me move in. Yes, I admit it's 'domestic.' But--Jannie, the house is crammed, Mike's got neighbors in and out, John's gone and blown his life up again then come running down with Rosie, with the poor thing worn to a frazzle, and I'm in over my head. This isn't my division. and...I'm lonely, Jannie. Will you come?" And, then, a second later, a relieved sigh... "Thanks. I'll be waiting..."


End file.
